Saligia
by MockingJayFlyingFree
Summary: "He greets them with a smile, a sneering grin like a wolf, and he's deliriously happy because he has just thought of the ultimate way of killing the whore and her bastard Seam child." Seven chapters. Seven deadly sins. All revolving around how others view Katniss and her relationship with Peeta. Written for the Prompts in Panem: Seven deadly sins challenge on Tumblr!
1. Ira

**I just couldn't resist the Prompts in Panem: Seven Deadly Sins challenge on Tumblr! Many of these were written on the plane, one even on my plane ticket. That was how much I just couldn't NOT write. I'll update The Other Mockingjay soon, but I'll have to write finish challenge first... Besides, the next chapter is difficult to write, there's a certain something that needs to be just ****perfect**** in it, soooo... You'll just have to wait a bit longer, I'm sorry. But I'm working on it, don't worry.**

**Back to the challenge: To refresh your memory, the seven deadly sins are:**

**Pride - Superbia**

**Greed - Avaritia **

**Lust - Luxuria**

**Envy - Invidia**

**Gluttony - Gula**

**Wrath - Ira**

**Sloth - Acedia**

**They aren't written in this order, I'll follow the order set by the Tumblr challenge. Rated M for violence, murder, sexual violence, smutty thoughts, well... You get the picture. First up: Wrath. **

* * *

**Ira**

He wakes in the dark from his deep, drug-induced sleep, and he knows she's near. She's somewhere in the building, he can **feel** it, perhaps even smell it. He tries to get up, but finds he's strapped to the bed, unable to move. He screams of the top of his lungs, alone in the darkness. He wets himself, and he would feel ashamed if he weren't so consumed with the intensity of his emotions, or rather the intensity of the one emotion he has left: His overwhelming hatred against **her**. The traitor, the liar, the seductress, the mutt.

When his throat is so raw that it hurts too much to keep screaming, he throws his head backwards. There is a very limited range of motions available to him, but this he can do: His head makes contact with the hard bed or rather the board he's lying on, again and again and again. At one point, someone comes in to give him an injection, it's a woman, but he doesn't think he's seen her before. When she realizes the mess he's made, she wrinkles her little nose, calls for help, and another woman comes to her aid. They take off his urine-stained trousers and underwear, clean him up and put on clean underwear, although they put on a diaper underneath the boxer shorts this time. They only release one leg at a time, making very sure he can't escape, and also making sure the next time he wets himself, it won't be that much work for them to clean up his mess. He hisses at them, he would've been mortified at having two young women clean his private parts, particularly in the state he's in, strapped to a hospital bed, if he hadn't been so consumed with thinking about how he's going to kill **her**.

He can think of a hundred different ways. Slow, fast. Always painful, some excruciatingly so. He imagines how it would feel to have her underneath him first, before he kills her, and the thought of her body writhing underneath his in panic when he pounds into her while she knows she's going to die makes him hard. He imagines how she would scream for mercy, but why should he be merciful when all she's ever given him is pain?

He knows she's been with Gale. They showed him the footage of them kissing in the forest, they told him they've been fucking for years, since long before the Hunger Games. She's just been toying with him, they say, and he believes them. They wouldn't lie, not to him, he's a victor after all. She knew he loved her, and they have both laughed at him behind his back. Perhaps she's even pregnant with Gale's child now. As he thinks about it, he realizes it must true, it must be so. He imagines the things he would do to her, knowing she's pregnant with **his** child, the child of the man he's always envied, the one he could never truly compete with, and his plans of how to kill her intensify. They grow even darker, there are no quick ways of killing her left in his brain now.

In the morning, another nurse comes in, along with two doctors. The nurse opens the blinds, letting in the rays of the morning sun. He blinks against the light. He knows the room stinks, of sweat, urine and semen, but he doesn't care. He greets them with a smile, a sneering grin like a wolf, and he's deliriously happy because he has just thought of the ultimate way of killing the whore and her bastard seam child. They look at him with worry in their eyes and give him another injection. It must be different from the other one, stronger, because he can feel himself slipping away, into unconsciousness.

As the world around him disappears, he knows he must hold on to that thought: The perfect murder of Katniss Everdeen.


	2. Avaritia

As she stood on stage, the scorching sun shining down mercilessly on her, she silently thanked her stylist for that extra layer of make-up. At least she wouldn't get sunburnt, which would be a shame, because everyone knows sunburns cause wrinkles, and facelifts are such a hassle.

She looked out over the crowd, elated to think about the millions watching **her** at that very moment as she read the name from the slip of paper.

"Primrose Everdeen."

Then, quickly. Screams, confusion, a volunteer, the blond girl with the braids was replaced by an older, darker girl. What a show, she thought. This will get District 12 some extra air time tonight.

Her voice shaking slightly, the girl told Panem that her name was Katniss Everdeen.

The girl was pretty in a sort of plain way, and she thought, she must be rather brave to volunteer - perhaps this one will last longer than they usually do. The problem with being stuck with District 12, which everyone knew was the least desirable district, was that the tributes were of such inferior quality that they rarely lasted longer than 24 hours in the arena. Which didn't give her much to work with. Her greatest wish was to climb on the ladder of the Hunger Games. To a career district, perhaps even to – her mouth watered – District two.

Not having to work with the vile and rude drunkard would help, too.

She wasn't after the money, she had enough. What she wanted was for people to truly **notice** her. To admire her, to invite her to all the best parties, to want to know her, to talk about her admiringly. But to achieve that goal, she needed some good tributes.

"Peeta Mellark!"

Peeta? It sounded like a girl's name. She saw a blond boy in the crowd, people shrunk away from him, as if he were already dead.

And as she looked at them, together on stage, she thought that they would surely never win, but perhaps they would last long enough for her to be noticed.

* * *

It took her some time to realize their full potential. In hindsight, she guessed the first clue was how the girl, Katniss, stabbed the knife into the mahogany table on the train, surprising even Haymitch, who – however grudgingly – seemed to respect her somewhat after that incident. One night in the bar, after the two tributes had both gone to bed, he drunkenly admitted to her that this year was the worst he'd ever experienced as a mentor – because Katniss was the first tribute he had met from District 12 who actually stood a chance. The disappointment when she died would be even worse than usual.

"What about Peeta?" she asked. She had, much to her surprise, come to like the blond baker's son, even though she tried very hard not to, because he would be dead in a few weeks.

Haymitch's answer mirrored her own thoughts. "Oh, he doesn't stand a chance." He gulped down his glass of white liquor, then poured himself another. But then he surprised her by saying: "I think he loves her, though."

And she thought, how convenient if it were true. Perhaps they could get District 12 some extra airtime this year.

She observed the two tributes closely over the next few days. Was Haymitch right?

She wasn't used to people trying to hide their affections. It wasn't the way it was done in the Capitol. However, she soon came to the same conclusion as Haymitch – as soon as she started looking, it became nearly painfully obvious. How Katniss could be so ignorant of the way his blue eyes never left her when she didn't look in his direction, was beyond her.

One night, in her room on the 12th floor, after she'd taken her sleeping pill and was in that drug-induced limbo between wake and artificially deep sleep, she even **cried** for them, much to her own surprise. The next day, she blamed it on her drugs, but she also realized that this was their one and only trump card, her ticket to fame.

The star-crossed lovers of District 12.

The phrase was her idea. Haymitch reluctantly agreed, but he wasn't stupid – 23 years of losing tributes in the Hunger Games had taught him that physical strength and intelligence, both of which were qualities Katniss and Peeta already possessed, were not enough.

They needed to be prepped, of course. She was delighted by how much of a difference Portia and Cinna's creations and some good, old-fashioned Capitol prepping did to their dull District 12 looks. She was ecstatic when the two of them rode in the chariot, hand in hand, on fire. She drank in the admiration and jealousy of the other escorts, and she thought: Next year, I'll have your job. Or perhaps yours.

When Katniss earned an eleven, she would've thought things couldn't possibly get better – if she hadn't known what was to come during the interviews, of course. She and Haymitch had planned it carefully, working as a true team for once. He'd managed to get the boy to open up, to confess his love for the girl. It turned out to be even better than they had thought – he'd loved her since they were five.

"Poor bastard," Haymitch told her over a late night drink, as had become their custom. She had to agree, but at the same time she couldn't help but think: These two are golden.

"I think Katniss might actually…" he whispered, his voice trailing off as he tried to suppress what she was surprised to realize must be tears. "I think we may be able to get her out of the arena alive." He didn't say anything about Peeta, but it wasn't necessary – they both knew that he was too good, too kind. But Katniss, the dark huntress – she was their best hope, possibly the finest tribute they'd ever get.

* * *

It was imperative that Katniss couldn't know, not until the interviews. It was hard to hide something so exciting from her, but Haymitch insisted. Her reactions had to be real, she was such a terrible actress that everyone would be able to tell instantly if she only tried to feign surprise.

Katniss did as well as could be expected during the interview, considering how she couldn't act and couldn't really interact well with others. She looked pretty, and her dress was stunning, yet she was forgettable, even with her eleven.

Peeta, though, he was the one who had the potential to change everything. She had to suppress the urge to take a pill as she watched him on the screen, the way he joked so easily with Caesar Flickerman. And then it came, his confession, what she had been waiting for: "…because she came here with me."

Perfection!

Every eye in Panem was looking at them now, at the poor and neglected district, at **her**.

Her star-crossed lovers of District 12.

Never mind the fury Katniss unleashed as soon as she met Peeta again off-camera, how hurt he looked (his eyes, not his bleeding hands), that tonight was (quite possibly) the last night in their lives in which they would feel safe. How she actually rather **liked** the two teenagers. It was all necessary to achieve her goal: To get a new job, a better job. That primary goal would perhaps be easier to achieve if she managed to reach her secondary goal:

To get Katniss Everdeen out of the arena alive.


	3. Gula

The first time he kissed a girl, he was 14. They were behind the school, they were there looking for plants for a science project. Curiously, as soon as they were out of view from the rest of their class, she seemed to forget all about the plants. Her gray Seam eyes twinkled when she asked him if he wanted to kiss her.

She was quite pretty, and he couldn't really think of a reason to say no, so he didn't. She smelled of flowers, which he felt was quite fitting, considering they were working on a biology assignment after all. The kiss was wet, soft, quite confusing, surprisingly arousing. He had to leave the rest of the plant collecting to her when the class was nearly over, he needed some time afterwards to calm down enough to become presentable again.

The encounter behind the school opened up a whole new world for him. Suddenly, he could **see** girls everywhere – and he saw the way they looked at **him**, too.

Because they did.

He realized he could have them all – well, perhaps not quite all, but so many that it didn't matter if a few of them were out of his reach.

He'd sneak out of his window at night, when his mother thought he was asleep. The slag heap was his destination more often than not. Hushed, giggling, quick encounters with girls he'd sent notes to at school, in class, while smiling that smile of his, the wry yet charming one, the one he discovered most of them couldn't resist. He was polite, dark, just dangerous enough to be exciting. Girls seemed to like a little bit of danger, and he was happy to provide that danger to them. Most of them were dark-haired, like him, but there were a few blond merchant girls as well. He had to be particularly careful with them, because their fathers would not approve of their daughters kissing – and quite soon they were doing much more than kissing – a miner's son by the slag heap. He liked it even better when there was an element of danger involved, though, so it was okay. Perhaps he was more like the girls than he thought.

The first pregnancy scare, when he was 15, taught him that slag heap encounters could have consequences, and since then he made very sure to do everything he could to avoid having to marry one of the girls, because he knew that's not the reason he was with them.

A few times, though, when he looked into a pair of gray Seam eyes clouded with passion, he was startled to see that they didn't belong to someone else. The first time it happened, he thought he must have gone crazy. Why was he thinking about Katniss while fucking whatever her name was by the slag heap? His hunting partner - at 14 she was just a child, really? He shook his head, clearing it, then continued thrusting.

When they met in the forest the next day, he found it surprisingly difficult to meet her eyes. She looked quizzically at him, sensing something perhaps, but didn't ask. They got four rabbits and seven squirrels between them, and as usual they didn't speak of anything but hunting.

But when he followed her through the fence on their way back, he couldn't help but notice that she wasn't just a child anymore.

Without explaining to himself why, he became more careful after that day. He stayed away from girls in Katniss' class, and concentrated his efforts on girls in his own class, even older girls, too. His friends would envy him his luck with girls. He didn't consider it "luck", exactly, it was just an enjoyable thing to do. It was easy – they were available, he was available. He knew some of them fell in love with him, but he quickly dumped them when that happened. Easy fun, no strings attached, pleasurable. That's what he wanted. He divided his life between the slag heap and the deep forest with Katniss. Both provided him with their own kind of freedom and escape.

She didn't know. She was oblivious to his second, secret life after dark. To Katniss, all that mattered was survival. He didn't know if he envied her or pitied her because of it. When he was with her, everything was easy. It was bows, trees, snares, talking about anything (but girls), blood, squirrels, sunshine, snow and freedom of the never-ending oppression, if only for a little while.

Then, one day, he noticed that something had changed. He watched Katniss kid around with Darius in the Hob, he told her about how she would have to pay **him** to kiss him, because everyone knew that redheads were amazing kissers. Katniss rarely laughed, she didn't have much to laugh about, but on that day, she did. Darius was probably so unthinkable that joking about kissing him was acceptable, even to her. He knew that if he had tried the same thing, she'd become furious, quite possibly kick his ass. He felt a hot surge of what he was surprised to discover was **anger**, or was it jealousy? He wanted to plant his fist square in the other man's jaw, tell him that she was **his**.

But she wasn't.

He didn't take a girl to the slag heap for two weeks after that day. He was quiet, staying at home, and his mother wondered if he was ill. He started **noticing** her at school, in a way he never had before. How she was filling out her school uniform more now. How she would eat her meager lunch a bit too fast, as if it could be taken from her at any time. The wind playing with the loose strands of hair that always escaped from her braid. The way the other kids tended to avoid her, and how she was somehow above it. Only he and Prim got to see her smiles, few and far between – but they made his heart skip a beat every time he saw them.

The slag heap now became an escape from longing for a girl he knew didn't think of him as anything but a hunting partner and friend.

One day, he discovered that he wasn't the only one who was watching Katniss.

Katniss was discussing something with Prim in the schoolyard, they were about to go home. Most of the other kids had already left. And then he saw him, a blond boy who he thought was in Katniss' class, lingering. What was his name? He searched his brain to remember. Peter? No, it was something weird.

Peeta.

And he saw the way the boy looked at her, how he was unable to look away, how he seemed frozen in time, both deliriously happy because she was near, yet heartbroken because she didn't notice he was there. And he thought, we're two. We both love her. But he guessed it didn't matter – he never saw her talk to him. Besides, he didn't know if Katniss had a type – but if she did, it certainly wouldn't be a blond baker's son. Peeta wasn't competition, he was just another poor bastard caught in Katniss' irresistible net, however unwittingly on her part.

He saw how much Peeta, his competition who wasn't really competition, wanted to talk to her, but never worked up the courage to. He knew how it felt, because even though he talked to her every day, he never once dared to talk about this change, this monumental shift in his perception of her. He could never, ever ask her to go to the slag heap with him. But he couldn't **not** go there, so he took other girls instead. By now they were almost exclusively blond and blue-eyed, because he didn't want to fool himself (or, God forbid others) into thinking that he was fucking them as some kind of substitute for Katniss Everdeen.


	4. Gula 2

_**This is actually my second attempt at writing about this particular sin, gluttony – the first was turned down, rightly so, for being mainly Galeniss. But this one is ALL Everlark, I promise you. **_

_**Smut alert!**_

* * *

Once a month, Katniss Everdeen turns into a monster.

It takes him a while to recognize the pattern. In the beginning, when they first started having sex, everything was so new and exciting that he didn't really notice the change. They were all over each other all the time anyway. But later, when they settled into a more established routine, when sex was something they took for granted in their relationship, something it seemed like they had done forever - one day, something was… different.

"Holy shit, you're soaking wet, and I haven't even touched you yet," he whispers to her one night. He's delighted at the discovery, of course, but it is unexpected – foreplay is key, his brothers had informed him at the age of 13, and years later, he found out that they were right.

Underneath him, Katniss is moaning like there is no tomorrow, and when her body is clearly ready for him already, who is he to turn down the invitation? He thrust into her, hard, and she welcomes him enthusiastically. They have sex four more times that night. He is so exhausted the next day he can barely keep his eyes open as he is baking, yet Katniss doesn't seem tired at all. Her skin is glowing, and he takes pride in knowing that he was the one who provided her with that post-orgasmic flush, actually - he has to count – 10 times.

Wow.

When it happens again, they work through their condom supply at an alarming rate.

And he marvels at this – Katniss, despite her initial doubts and problems with intimacy, eagerly embraced the concept of sex once she discovered just how much she loved it. But even so, the difference between the usual enjoying-sex-Katniss and this wild-unsatiable-Katniss is striking.

He sometimes wants to ask her about it, usually late at night as he holds her close before they fall asleep, but is ashamed to – he's afraid she will be embarrassed. Perhaps she is thinking that it is somehow unwomanly-like, being this wanton and wild and nearly aggressive in bed.

Not that he minds, of course.

One rainy day, he's bored. Katniss is in the forest hunting, he's surprised she hasn't come home yet, and he guesses she'll be pissed and soaked to the bone when she does. She's too stubborn to let the rain stop her from hunting, even when it should. He goes through the bookshelves – which doesn't take very long, really, as they don't have that many books. He's not much of a reader, and neither is Katniss. Most of the books belonged to her parents – her mother took some books with her to District four when she finally came for the few personal belongings that she had, but she didn't take everything.

Something catches his eye – an old, worn book, the letters on the cover so faded he can hardly make out what the title is. "The woman in health and sickness."

Intrigued, he opens the book. It must be quite old, the pages are yellowing and a few of them are torn. It's clearly been read a number of times. On the first page, a name is written in a neat, somewhat old-fashioned handwriting: "Evalina Perennia". He remembers vaguely that it's Katniss' maternal grandmother. Her mother must have inherited it from her.

Somewhat embarrassed, he starts reading, and he's suddenly drawn into a completely alien and rather scary world – of pains, hormones, birth control, fetuses, miscarriages, temperatures, menopausal changes (he didn't even know menopausal was a word), pubic hair, vaginal discharges.

Sex, too. What the book has to say about sex is somewhat clinical, but he still reads it, perhaps he'll learn something new despite the book being old and possibly outdated. He realizes this must be the only information source that was available to Katniss' mother on the subject of female health, back in the dark days when there were no doctors available to District 12 residents and she, an unschooled healer, was all they had. He finds a drawing of the female external genitalia, and memorizes a few Latin names, while trying (unsuccessfully) not to compare Katniss to the picture (he knows her so well, he could paint her right now – in fact, he decides, one day he will).

But then, there is a chapter on the female sexual cycle. He knows that she has one, of course, as she turns down his requests for sex for six days every month and is generally cranky, plus there is a somewhat funny smell in the bathroom. But as he reads about the hormonal changes taking place in a woman's body (in **Katniss'** body, for heaven's sake, in the body of **his** woman!), which is still enigmatic to him, something suddenly dawns on him.

The last time she, well, went completely wild and rode him enthusiastically eight times in a day (he was **sore** afterwards), was seven days ago. He remembers it because it took him five days to recover enough to sleep with her again, and that was the day before yesterday. And when did it happen the time before that? Oh yes, the day after Haymitch's birthday party.

He checks the calendar. Five weeks ago.

Suddenly, he hears her outside, slamming the door, she is pissed and soaked just as he had anticipated. He quickly puts the book back, he doesn't know why he feels ashamed for reading it, but it feels as if he's been trying to figure out her most intimate secrets. He puts on a smile, pretending as if nothing's happened, and he thinks: If I'm right, her period will start in about a week.

And it does.

And then he thinks, if I'm right, it will happen again at around the 14th.

And he waits.

The 13th he wakes – actually, he is woken.

By Katniss.

Her hair is a wonderful, sleepy mess of dark curls, lying over the pillow. Her strong, slender thigh is draped over his hip, and her soft, little hand is down in his boxer shorts, stroking him, he's almost fully erect already and he didn't even notice.

Yup, he thinks.

Then he can't think anymore, because she breathes in his ear: "I'm so horny, Peeta," and she practically purrs like a cat. And then she has him on his back, she is already naked, it seems, his boxer shorts are also gone, and she rolls on a condom and sinks onto him while she moans what is possibly the most delightful moan he's heard from her (and he's heard quite a few). He feels how she welcomes him inside, she's so wet and tight and wonderful, and he knows that this, this feeling of disappearing into her, is something he will never tire of.

He **loves** it when she's on top. Hell, he loves any position, really, but he particularly enjoys the view he's getting of her body when she's on top of him, doing most of the work. He thrusts into her too, of course, but the way she writhes on top of him, her breasts bouncing up and down – he can't resist reaching out a hand to touch one of them before his hand moves lower, to the little nub (he even knows the Latin name for it now) between her legs that he knows is sure to tip her over the edge.

Pretty soon, too, by the looks of it.

This isn't slow, tired, sweet early morning sex. It's hot and hard and fast, and as soon as his fingers touch her clit, he's amazed to see that she's actually coming already, she's coming right now, and she screams his name. She is loud, she is oh, so delightfully loud, and their bedroom window is open as usual. He is beyond caring, though, he can only distantly think that he hopes Haymitch is unconscious (or asleep, he doesn't know what is usually the case) at this time of the morning. He desperately fights off his own orgasm, he's intent to see hers through, to drink in every detail of the moaning, spasming, flushed, incredibly arousing creature that is his Katniss, his lover, his everything, who is right now riding him.

Coming wildly around him.

Her head is thrown backwards as the last spasms shudder through her body, and she sinks down on his chest, breathing heavily. He gives her a minute to catch her breath, but in reality what he's doing is giving himself some time so he doesn't come as soon as he starts moving – watching Katniss come is almost as enjoyable as coming himself, and watching her turns him on more than he ever thought possible. But then he has his body somewhat under control, and he starts thrusting into her. She's so limp in her post-orgasmic state it's a bit awkward, so he quickly turns her around, up on her knees and elbows, and then pushes into her again, this time working furiously towards his own release. She is almost unbelievably wet, she is still shivering from her orgasm, and he can't believe how wonderful she looks like this, how perfect her body is from this angle as well.

And then he hears it, it takes him a few thrusts to realize what is happening because it usually doesn't: She's coming again, another orgasm is coming just on the heels of the first. She is moaning loudly now, even more loudly than she was before, and she starts screaming his name, over and over, in sync with his thrusts: "Peeta! Peeta! Peeeeeeetaaaaaaa!"

They must surely hear her down to the village.

Let them hear, he thinks, let them hear how much she loves being fucked by me.

And then they both come, together, she milks every drop out of him with violent internal spasms, and after, he's lying heavily on her while trying to catch his breath.

They don't speak after, they just lie there together, touching and kissing. If they have any plans for today, then neither of them remembers. What they have right now, right here, is more important.

Then, half an hour later, she takes his hand and puts it on her breast. He's still exhausted, but can't stop himself from closing his fingers around it, and she bites him in the shoulder, just hard enough to hurt.

She smiles a wicked smile.

After, he whispers to her: "You do realize you're ovulating, don't you?"

And she looks at him with confused, hazy eyes.

Yes, once a month, Katniss Everdeen turns into a sex monster – and he's loving every minute of it.


	5. Superbia

Ever since he was a little boy, he somehow knew that he was different. He was smarter. Stronger. More deserving.

He was special.

He knew how to get that extra cookie, or to get an A on his geography paper despite not studying for it, or how to be let in on a secret. He knew how to get a girl to fall in love with him, to allow him to take her to bed and have his way with her. What happened after was less important, he was after the conquest, nothing more. None of the pretty girls, in their outrageous dresses, impossibly long fake eyelashes or multicolored skin was someone he would… respect. He was above them, he was something **more**.

University and conquests were no longer enough as he grew older. He wanted more, he was **worth** more. He was better than the others in positions of power – smarter, stronger. Surely that meant he deserved their positions more than them? Because he was smart enough to outmaneuver them – make them fall into his traps, so they would be too scandalized to run for office or apply for a job. He was smart enough to uncover their hidden, dirty secrets, and use these secrets against them. And if neither of those tactics worked, he was strong enough to use other, more direct and deadly, yet equally efficiacious methods.

His favorite was poison.

The first time he poured the contents of a small vial of clear, tasteless liquid into someone's cup, only to watch the older man die noisily a few minutes later, he was unable to identify his own emotions - power, fear, arousal, triumph, happiness? Perhaps all of them, or none at all.

The first time was the most exhilarating, but also the hardest. Once the barrier was breached, it was easy to do it again, although less exciting. He worked his way to the top of the Capitol with an unmatched speed, he was the golden boy of Panem.

Some people whispered about him. Surely they had to be removed. The death rate in the circles of power in Panem was soaring, and he realized that he had to be careful, because not even in the Capitol do murders with poison go unpunished. He found other poisons, which didn't kill immediately, but after weeks or months. Poisons that didn't work through chemicals or plants, but through secret irradiations, remains from horrific experiments in District 13, long ago. Poisons with antidotes, allowing him to drink or eat from the poisoned food himself, evading suspicion.

But one time, when he was 35 and only months away from become President, he was out of luck at last. The antidote didn't work as the ancient, secret book had promised – the book of poisonous substances he had found in a secret archive, the only copy known to man. It was a poison of a lingering kind, and he heard in his sick bed that the object of his attention, or victim if you wish - the man he had shared a bottle of wine with - died slowly and painfully and inexplicably in the very same hospital ward. It provided little consolation to him, and he was consumed with pain and fear then, thinking that this would become his own fate at last.

How undeserved, now that he was so close to his ultimate goal! He cursed the ancient witch who had written the book, while black blood flowed from all his natural body orifices and he had to endure both excruciating pain and humiliating treatment attempts at the Unity Hospital, the finest in the realm.

But the antidote must have worked of sorts, because he did survive. Three months later, he was discharged – just in time to run in the presidential election, now without the offending judge with whom he'd shared that fateful bottle running against him.

It was perhaps, he thought later, fitting that this most important murder in his ascension to power was the one that changed his life forever. Not only his title, but also his body. All the best doctors in Panem could not heal him fully, and many of them died as a result of their failures. Oozing, painful, bleeding, stinking wounds covered the mucous membranes of his mouth, they would not heal. He started surrounding himself with roses, genetically engineered to increase their scent, to mask the offending odor. The very first time he took a woman to bed after, on the eve of the (obviously very much rigged) election, he discovered that the antidote's partial lack of effect had injured his body in another way, too. He had the girl, one of the most famous young actresses in Panem at the time, executed the next morning, as he could not risk that words of his inadequacy got out. No doctors could give him back what he had once taken for granted, and a number of women had to die until he finally realized that it wasn't them, it was **him**, and it would never change.

After a while, he abandoned all his attempts in bed and poured all the energy he previously spent on women onto his career instead. Gaining power was difficult, keeping it was a greater challenge.

Yet he never doubted that this was why he was born. This was what he was made for, what he deserved, what he could do better than anyone else.

He lived a life of riches, power, respect, fear, death, blood, extravagance. There was often some degree of unrest in the districts, but he made very sure that they knew their place. They were the providers of Panem – of gems, electricity, seafood, meat, grains.

Of coal.

He never gave District 12 much thought. No one did. Not until, many years later, a dark-haired huntress and a blond baker's son were reaped from that poorest and least populous of the 12 remaining district. In hindsight, he wondered if he should've known? Why didn't he see it – in the boy's easy, charming interviews with Flickerman? In the dark determination in the girl's gray eyes? In their fire, the way they somehow owned the public in a way that he didn't? If he had **seen**, he would've ordered Seneca Crane to arrange two "accidents" in the arena, perhaps even just one would've been enough, as the boy was nothing without her. The star-crossed lovers would have been but a parenthesis in the long line of dead teenagers in the proud history of the Hunger Games.

But they outsmarted him. **She** outsmarted him. She mocked him, she mocked all of Panem (and **he** was Panem, after all) with her berries. She changed the rules, and he would never forgive himself for not realizing until it was too late.

If only he'd had her killed when he had the chance, while she was still relatively unknown, unloved, when no one but District 12 would have really noticed if she'd died.

But then the rebels embraced her, called her the "Mockingjay", although if the girl herself was unaware that there even was a rebellion, not to mention that she was their symbol and hope.

Oh, the irony.

She became something more, someone he couldn't just dispose of. His power was, it seemed, not all-encompassing after all. Here they were, the baker and the huntress, and even he, the president of Panem, was unable to murder them out of fear for what would happen in the districts. **Fear**!

It was unspeakable.

Yet there were ways, he **needed** to dispose of the so-called star-crossed lovers of District 12. Even in her stubborn refusal to love the puppy-eyed baker, the girl mocked him. She didn't understand the game she was playing, the game she unwittingly became a part of as soon as she shot that apple from the mouth of the roasted pig. He wasn't there to see it, but he watched the footage later. The eleven, the pig, the arrow, the defiance. "Thank you for your consideration." He should've seen, should've disposed of her.

He thought the new reaping rules of the Quarter Quell were a stroke of genius (and of course, they were his idea). Not only would he get rid of the baker and the dirty coal miner's daughter, he could add a few other nuisances to the list as well. Such as O'dair, who knew too many secrets. Or the whore Mason, who had links to the rebels, but who he couldn't fully control because she had no one left to lose. He had wanted to add Abernathy to the list as well, for much the same reasons as Mason, but he couldn't take out all three of the District 12 victors, that would be tweaking the rules too much, so he had to settle for two out of three. He suspected, though, that losing the two 17-year-olds would break the old alcoholic irrepearably, which would solve the problem anyway.

He had thought that this was surely a plan that couldn't fail. He would restore peace and equilibrium to Panem, ensure a steady stream of goods for the luxury lives of the citizens of the Capitol, while the workers of the districts were fed just enough to work, but just too little to have enough energy and spare time to rebel.

But then, everything changed, with one arrow. One arrow showed all of Panem that even in the Hunger Games, there were weaknesses. Flaws. Flaws that could be exploited. The worthless piece of trash, he could imagine there was still coal dust in her pores, the girl who defied him even in the very act of breathing – she was **gone**. In the aftermath, it turned out she wasn't the only one.

But he did have one thing, one final weapon that he could use to break the Mockingjay bitch.

The baker.

The day after the incidence with the arrow, he went to see the second half of the star-crossed lovers, the one who was (unfortunately for him) actually in love.

The boy never saw him, he didn't know that the most powerful man of Panem was watching him through the one-way mirror. He looked scared, tired, but still not anywhere near desperation. His interrogators were awaiting instructions from above on how to proceed.

As he looked at the boy, who in every way possible was so unlike the boy he himself had once been, his eyes narrowed. The baker's son didn't deserve this. He did not deserve having someone to love, even if she didn't love him back. And even if the Mockingjay didn't love him (or did she? An insistent voice inside him said, what about that kiss on the beach? Or her reaction when his heart stopped? Was it real after all?), he still knew that right here, he held the one person (beside her sister, who had burned in the destruction of District 12, that was foolish of him, she would have been more useful alive) who could be used to break the Mockingjay and end the rebellion, once and for all.

He was smarter, stronger, more cunning.

Special.

He deserved to be where he was, and he wouldn't let anyone, let alone some dirt poor workers' children from District 12, jeopardize his vision of what Panem should be.

So before leaving, he said to the head interrogator: "I need him to hate her. Do whatever it takes. You have two weeks."

"Would we have permission to use… any means necessary?" the head interrogator asked, a grin slowly forming on his face. "Because there is something… Something that is still somewhat… experimental. His love for her is so strong that using such extraordinary methods may be necessary if we are to achieve the desired effect in the allocated time frame."

"Do whatever it takes," he repeated, and left.

As he exited the building, he thought: "The joke is on you, Katniss Everdeen. The joke is on you."


	6. Luxuria

He looks at her in school. He's always looked at her, ever since that day when she sang the valley song, and it was as if even the birds would stop singing just to listen to her angelic voice.

He never has the courage to talk to her, but he always knows where she is. His body knows, he doesn't even have to look around the schoolyard to see where she is, out of the corner of his eye. His body is like a compass, and she's his north.

She's thin and dark and has coal dust in her hair, like all the other Seam kids.

But he loves her.

Then, when she is 11, something happens. He hears rumors of a terrible accident in the mines, and when neither Katniss nor Prim is in school for three days afterwards, he knows that something has happened to their father, that he must have been involved. He wants to ask his friends, perhaps they know the names of the miners that were killed, but he doesn't dare to for fear that they will understand. Understand that he loves her, that he always has. Besides, they are merchant kids – they don't care about seam miners, anyway. They probably won't know the names of the dead.

But when she comes back to school on the fourth day, he knows beyond a doubt that her father is dead. One look at her is enough.

He hates himself for not daring to talk to her, not having the courage to try to comfort her.

That winter, he watches her grow thinner, gaunt, nearly invisible. One day, he burns bread for her sake, and he will never forget the look on her face, the quiet desperation. The dark and terrible look in her eyes, the one that tells him that she is about to go somewhere he can't follow. He feels ashamed that throwing bread to her as if she's an animal is all he dares to do for her, even as he is afraid that she will die.

Disturbingly, or so he thinks, this coincides with a shift in how he thinks about her. Where he would previously think that she looks so beautiful in her school uniform, which is a bit too short, he assumes her mother can't afford to buy a new one, he now wonders what it would be like to lift that short skirt up, to slide his hand up her thigh, to **look** at her.

The first time he thinks about this while he is in bed, is late one night. He touches himself, he can't stop himself, despite wanting to, and almost dies from shame when something comes out of him, for the first time, something messy and sticky, and he knows he's become a man. Yet he is only a scrawny blonde boy of 12, insecure and ashamed and scared.

The next day, he can't even look in her direction, he's afraid she will see him and somehow **know** what he did last night, and that he thought of her while doing it.

He throws away his boxer shorts, he can't bear the shame of his mother washing them and seeing what he's done. When his mother notices that one is missing, he accepts the beating without one single tear.

Yet he can't stop himself from doing it. Again and again. Over the next few years, it becomes a habit. As his friends start talking more about girls, about how they make them feel, about what they would like to do to and with them, he realizes that perhaps he's not quite as perverted as he thought. His best friend Davos even has a magazine with pictures of naked women in it, it's old and battered and some of the pages are stuck together, almost sticky, and no one wants to think about just how that might have happened, let alone who was responsible. Davos lends him the magazine one day, in secret. Peeta has to promise to give it back the next day, and he's grateful that his friend trusts him enough to lend him this secret treasure.

He looks at the pictures in bed at night, hiding underneath the duvet with a flashlight, all the while listening for his mother's footsteps. There is no knowing what she would do if she found him like this, stroking himself while looking at pictures of naked women.

It feels nice, and they certainly look nice, but when he returns the magazine the next day behind school, blushing a bit as he does, he doesn't feel sad.

Thinking about Katniss is better.

She is always on his mind, ever present, even though she never looks at him, not to mention speak to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that she's changing. Her body changes, and it makes his dreams even more intense, his imagination runs wild thinking about what is underneath the ratty school uniform. He can see how she's starting to fill out, not as much as some of the other girls that his friends like to drool over, the size of their breasts seems to be everything they talk about. Katniss may not be as voluptuous as some of the merchant girls, but then again she's never had as much food as they have.

To him, she's perfect.

She is the object of his desire, of his love, some nights the thinks it's a miracle he gets any sleep at all. He imagines what it would be like if she were here in bed with him – what it would feel like if she would look at him, with love in her eyes, and say his name.

"Peeta."

Just thinking about what his name would sound like on her tongue makes him whimper. He doesn't think she's ever said his name. She never looks at him, she hardly knows who he is.

He is just the pathetic, shy baker's son who lusts after Katniss Everdeen from afar, who loves her, and who has always loved her.


	7. Acedia

There are at least a dozen devils dancing, right on top of the very surface of his brain. Devils in pumps, the high heels twisting deep into every sulcus, the pointed toes torturing the surface of the gyri.

Or so it feels.

He lifts his arm, thankfully the half-empty bottle is just within reach, even if his elbow ends up in a pool of vomit.

Oh well, worse things have happened.

As the white liquor, his savior and means of escape, creates a trail of fire down his throat and esophagus, he hears something. Something which makes the devils dance even faster and harder, like a fucking river dance from hell.

The doorbell.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he whimpers. Not because he's unable to get up from the floor and open the door, not because he really doesn't want to see them (and there is no question who's by the door, there are only two possibilities and they almost always come together), but because he just wants them to **stop**. Stop feeding the devils. Stop.

Finally, the doorbell does stop ringing. He thinks he's rid of them, but then he suddenly sees a movement. Two pairs of feet standing right in front of him. Black hunting boots of supple leather, soft and worn, and a pair of old sneakers which look suspiciously Capitol-made.

FUCK.

Well, well, well, if it isn't the star-crossed lovers of District 12.

He slurs something, he doesn't know if he tries to say star-crossed lovers or devils or liquor or whatever, but he can at least hear that what comes out of his mouth is completely without meaning.

"We have to throw him in the shower," Peeta says, "he's covered in vomit."

"**We**? I'm not seeing him naked. I'm telling you, I won't do it,» Katniss says. "I didn't agree to this. I agreed to help you clean his filthy house, **not** to shower a 40-plus man covered in vomit."

He actually laughs at this, slurs something about "sweetheart".

"I'm **not** your sweetheart, Haymitch," Katniss hisses, and he can't help but think that she truly is pure.

"Just help me carry him upstairs, get him into the bathroom, and I'll take care of the rest," Peeta promises, and Katniss reluctantly agrees.

How he ended up in the shower without his clothes on he can't quite remember when thinking about it later on, but he does register that the water is freezing cold (he must remember to call the plumber one of these days, he really must), and he howls, but Peeta looks less than sympathetic.

Afterwards, when he stumbles downstairs, falling down the last four steps and hurting his wrist while cursing to vent his anger and pain, he's greeted with a sight he never thought he'd see: Katniss Everdeen, cleaning. She looks clearly uncomfortable, avoiding the vomit on the floor where he was lying, as well as the bucket of vomit and water underneath the kitchen table. She has opened all the windows, letting in the fresh spring air. All the curtains have been taken down, from the sounds coming from downstairs he's guessing they are in the washing machine.

"Get to work, Mellark," she says, "this was your idea, after all." Peeta orders him to sit on a chair and drink five large glasses of water before he's allowed to move, and he's surprised to find that he will actually obey, if only because it's quite a show, watching them clean.

"This is the worst mess I've ever seen, Haymitch," Katniss says to him.

"I love you too, sweetheart," he laughs back.

"Shut up."

Peeta doesn't say much. He works quickly, diligently, starting – not surprisingly – with the kitchen. When was the last time he cleaned it?

Oh, that's right. Never.

Peeta scrubs it down, while Katniss throws out numerous bags of garbage. Peeta finds his stash of liquor in the kitchen cabinet - well, parts of it, anyway. Obviously he has bottles all over the house, because you never know. "I'd pour it all out," he says sadly, "if I hadn't known you'd just get more."

Yup, he's right about that.

Facing a day without a means of escape is not an option.

He's sitting in just a (sort of) clean t-shirt and a pair of old boxer shorts that Peeta found somewhere in the mess that is his wardrobe. "Why are you doing this?" he finally asks, as the water has diluted the liquor somewhat in his veins.

Not surprisingly, Peeta is the one who answers. It must've been his idea, he doesn't think Katniss would ever clean voluntarily. "We don't want you to live like this," Peeta tells him. He pauses, looking down at the floor. "What is this?"

"Goose shit."

So even Saint Peeta knows some four-letter words. Quite interesting.

But for some reason, it's Katniss who makes him go over the edge. She's never been a good actress, and now it's clear, she can't hide it, she never could…

Contempt.

"I'd think that you, of all people, would withhold judgement, little Miss Nervous Breakdown," he finds himself screaming at her, sounding louder and far more angry than he'd thought he would. He only wants to remind her of how she herself looked once - her matted hair, how she didn't eat, didn't talk to anyone, how she was just a shadow, eaten alive by the nightmares.

He's lived with those nightmares for 27 years. She has no right to judge him.

"Fuck you, Haymitch.»

«Fuck you,» he answers, like a real gentleman.

"No one's fucking anyone," Peeta says, he is perhaps the only sane victor District 12 has ever had.

"**You're** fucking her," he objects, and for a split second, he sees anger even in the boy's (man's) eyes. Then it's gone.

«Yes, I am. Do you have a problem with that?»

Crap. Peeta effectively defused him.

He slumps down in the chair, embarrassed to realize that his eyes are filled with tears. He blinks them away, furiously, but he sees that Katniss sees them – and her pity angers him even more than her contempt.

"Don't you dare judge me," he groans, and taking a bottle of liquor in each hand he stumbles upstairs.

And he thinks, they haven't had to watch 46 tributes die. They haven't had to do it all **alone**. They have each other to help them through the nightmares, to cling to at night, to find an escape with and to build a new life together with, however broken. All he has, is a bottle. A bottle which eats him up, a little more day by day, yet he can't live without it. He's tried, and life without it is impossible, unthinkable. And if the bottle comes with friends (or baggage) – a ruined liver, a house filled with junk and vomit and filth and goose shit, no one to love but these two burned teenagers, no family, no future - then he'll embrace those friends. Because anything that can make him forget, forget about the Hunger Games, is worth it all.

So screw you, Katniss fucking Everdeen.


	8. Invidia

**Day 7: Envy**

As soon as the train has left, as soon as she is no longer here, here in District 12, he regrets it. Why didn't he volunteer? He knows the superficial reasons, such as how she'd never forgive him. He is to take care of her family if she doesn't make it back, and when they made this deal in the woods several years ago, they both knew that if one of them was reaped, a return to District 12 was very unlikely.

Unless it was in a coffin, of course.

The thought of her body, cold and stiff in a coffin, makes him lose control, he runs out of class and vomits in the toilet. Afterwards, he's ashamed – he feels as if everyone knows. How he loved her, and never had the courage to tell her, and now it's too late.

He should have volunteered, he should have tried to protect her. Saving her life was more important than feeding her mother and sister, yet he failed her. The boy tribute, the baker's son who he barely knows, surely won't be of any help at all. He saw him up on stage, saw his smooth cheeks, his well-fed merchant body. He's hearing stories about him in school now after the reaping - of how kind and nice Peeta is. **Nice**! Nice will only get you killed in the Hunger Games. What Katniss **needs**, is another hunter to watch her back in the arena.

Some even talk about how nice he **was**, as if he's already dead.

The days go by so slowly. The woods are so quiet without her. He's good with his snares, but she's the best archer by far, and his catch goes down drastically. He feels so alone, and only the trees see his tears, only the squirrels hear his anguish and self-loathing. He wonders what she's doing in the Capitol, is she as scared and lonely as he is?

The tributes getting to know their scores is mandatory viewing in Panem. Katniss is the last one, and he has to suffer through all the other tributes getting their scores while anxiously awaiting hers. Many of them are high, too high for his liking. What did Katniss do to try to impress the gamemakers? Surely she must've shown them her archery skills, but will it be enough? He's seen the other tributes – Cato, Glimmer, Clove, Thresh… All seem deadly and dangerous, each in different ways. But first, it's Peeta's turn. He thinks the baker's son will get a really low score, but is surprised when he gets a quite respectable eight. And then it's her turn…

Eleven.

That's my girl, he thinks, his heart swells with pride even though he detests the Hunger Games with every fiber of his being. That's my girl.

But of course, she isn't his girl.

After, he's more scared than proud. What if the eleven makes her a target? Cato's eyes, the cold determination in them, haunt him. He wakes from terrible nightmares, screaming, but he won't tell his mother what he dreams of.

He guesses she understands, though. She hugs him one night, she hasn't done that in years. He's 18, almost a man, but he still appreciates and accepts her love and comfort. "I'm so sorry," she whispers, and there's no need to tell him why she's sorry.

But his world turns upside down during the interview. He never thought anything could make him feel worse than he already did – but he was wrong. The interviews are mandatory, the mines are closed for a few hours so everyone can watch, even the miners working the night shift. Everyone is watching them on an immense screen in the square outside the Hall of Justice, where she was reaped, just a few short weeks ago. It feels like it was in another life already. It's the first time he will see her, **truly** see her, since he said goodbye to her, promising her to look after her family. The parade doesn't count, it was so short, she was so far away, and besides, **he** was there, too.

The girl he sees on screen is so different from the Katniss he knows so well, his Katniss with the braid who looked awkward in her best (or only good) dress while she waited in the pens for the reaping. She's wearing too much make-up now, he guesses it's not something she's chosen voluntarily. Her eyelashes are too long, yet they frame her gray eyes wonderfully. Her lips look fuller. He's ashamed by how much he suddenly desires her – he's always known Katniss Everdeen was pretty, but seeing her like **this**, is almost too much. She looks foreign but utterly beautiful, and he wishes he were there to touch her, to feel her full lips against his. As he looks at her, he wonders how many other men in Panem desire her as well, right now. As she twirls, fire licking at her dress, he feels dizzy – and he knows he is but one of many, surely.

But Katniss isn't the one who will truly take his breath away – it's Peeta. His confession of his love for Katniss, how he's loved her since they were five, leaves him feeling stunned. If the sight of Katniss twirling in her dress caused a collective gasp in the crowd on the square, it's nothing compared to the reaction that rips through the crowd as they realize: Peeta loves her.

Peeta loves Katniss, the girl on fire.

Only his mother's strong hand keeps him standing, but he notices the many looks he's getting, looks of sympathy. And he thinks, did they all know? That he loves her, too? And that he was too cowardly to volunteer to save her? He sees Peeta's mother in the crowd, she doesn't seem to recognize him, but she looks like she's seething. Her son being in love with a girl from the Seam must be a terrible blow for her. Perhaps she is the only one who truly understands him, he thinks, or rather shares the disgust, but for completely different reasons.

After, he can't bear the thought of going home, so he slips off into the forest. It's getting dark, he shouldn't be out here, especially not all alone, but this is where he feels her presence most strongly, this is where he can get away from the looks of pity.

He thinks of her. She will be in the arena very soon. He should be there with her now, comfort her, hold her at night. As he finally allows himself to think that thought, even though he instantly knows it's unbearable. The forbidden one - that he will surely die if he's never allowed to hold her at night. To feel her soft, curvy body against his, feel her breath against his neck, stroke his hands along her strong back, marvel at the feel of her perfect skin underneath his fingers. His cock is straining against his jeans, and he feels both ashamed, devastated and stupid. Stupid for not realizing earlier, or rather, for not daring to tell her.

Peeta is much braver than he is. Even facing certain death, he has the courage to tell all the world that he loves her.

He never even dared to tell her when they were all alone in the forest.

His knuckles are white as he clutches his hunting knife between his fingers, still sheathed. What if **he's** holding her, right now? In his bed?

He can barely breathe.

The blond boy's hands on **his** girl is too much, too painful. It should be **him**, he should be the one to hold her at night. He unsheathes the knife, and vents his anger and frustration and fear on some young birch trees, stabbing at them, again and again, destroying them.

When he finally comes home, late that night, he is sweaty and exhausted, some superficial cuts on his hands and his torn nails are testimony to his loss of control. His mother waits up for him, but doesn't talk to him, doesn't touch him. She just nods slightly as he sees him, relieved that he's home at last, but thankfully not pretending that she knows what he's going through.

Watching the Hunger Games is pure torture. Yet the times when he's not watching are, strangely, even worse. At least when he's watching, he **knows**what's happening to her. He knows when she's safe, and when she's not, he knows what she's facing, what she's doing in order to protect herself. To his relief, she hasn't teamed up with Peeta. In fact, she believes he's teamed up with the careers, that he has betrayed her. What she can't know, although all of Panem does, it that Peeta is doing everything he can to protect her.

Damn him. Damn him for being brave and strong and likeable. He's a good man, much better than he himself would ever be, but why does he have to rub it in? It's clear, at least, that the boy truly loves her. It would be endearing, if he wasn't so furious with himself for not volunteering, and with Peeta for being there in the arena with her and being all too perfect.

Then - the fire, the trackerjackers, the explosions. They all nearly kill him inside, as he thinks, every time, that this is it. This is where she dies. She is dying from me right now, in this very moment, and I never told her, I never told her how much I love her.

Yet she lives.

He's walking around in a haze, spending far too much time in front of the TV.

He sees that Peeta is dying, and he's appalled when he realizes that a small, dark, ugly part of him is **relieved**.

But then everything changes. There's a new rule: There may be two victors – if they are from the same district. There's no doubt in his mind that this new rule is a result of the star-crossed lovers angle, he understands from the TV coverage that the Capitol is going nuts over their tragic (so-called) romance.

He knows that Peeta loves her, but does Katniss love him? He's not so sure. Katniss has never been a very good actress, and he – surprisingly - relaxes a little as they actually unite for the first time in the arena, excluding their quick encounter in the confusion of the tracker jackers. Peeta is clearly badly injured, and he has to admit to himself that Peeta doesn't feel that much like competition anymore.

Which is perhaps a strange thing to think, as they kiss. Again and again. The first time it feels like a slap in the face, but it gradually gets somewhat easier. It's only bearable to watch because she doesn't look like she's… really into it. She doesn't look like she's doing it because she wants to, she looks like she's doing it because she doesn't have any other choice. He doesn't dare to ask anyone else what they think about it – he certainly hopes it's only an act on her part, but he doesn't want all of Panem to call her bluff, he knows that their romance is very important for their survival.

At night, Katniss and Peeta end up in the same sleeping bag. He's watching it on TV at home that night, and he has to sit on his hands to keep them from shaking. Even though he knows Peeta is very, very sick, barely conscious, the thought of him being in the same sleeping bag as his girl makes him so angry he can hardly breathe. He's scared of himself, how he feels, why does he feel like this? Is Peeta even real competition? True, Peeta is there with her, and he's not. But when he looks at Katniss – does she love him?

He knows her very well, after all. He knows how to read her, he's spent so much time with her, she's his hunting partner. When they are out in the woods, they react as if they are one. One mind, one body. He watches her as she lies awake next to a sleeping – or perhaps unconscious – Peeta. His skin is flushed, he must be burning up. He saw the wound, and he knows the baker's son, the nice and kind boy, is septic and will be beyond saving very soon unless… Unless they get medicine. Strong medicine. He is confident that she knows this as well, being the daughter of a healer, even though she never really cared much for her mother's profession. Katniss touches his blond hair as he sleeps, a strange look on her face. Is it love? He wonders. Are they really star-crossed lovers? They don't look like it. Or do they? He's in her sleeping bag, curled up next to her, the place which is rightly (or so he thinks) **his**.

When she goes to the Feast, to get the one thing she needs desperately and which he knows can only be one thing – medicine for **him** – he feels sick. He wants to scream at her: Don't go, Katniss, don't go! Don't risk your life for him!

But he knows her too well. There's no way she can't **not** go. Whether or not it's because of love he can't say, but the events have taken control of this now, she doesn't really have any choice. How can she face going home to District 12 if she doesn't try to save him? Save the nice and kind boy who teamed up with the careers to protect her, who looks at her like she's his everything?

She **is** his everything.

As she is **his** everything as well.

She makes it back, if only barely. He makes a strangled sound as he sees the blood flowing down her face, the features he knows so well being concealed by her blood. Peeta gets his medicine, the precious injection that nearly cost Katniss her life, and a part of him hates Peeta for putting his girl in this perilous situation, even though he knows, deep down, that it wasn't his fault.

He wants only one thing, and that's for Katniss to survive, to come home. To come home to him. Will she really come home to **him**, though, even if she gets out of the arena alive? The thought eats him up, he hardly sleeps at all that night. The thought of the two of them together in a sleeping bag makes him feel sick, he lies with his eyes open, staring out into the dark most of the night. Does he touch her? He wonders. Does he revel in the feel of her body close to his, as he himself would if given the chance? Does he want to touch her in places where he knows Katniss has never been touched before? Surely he must. But does he actually do it? He imagines the baker's hands on her breasts, and he has to force his thoughts onto something else, or he'll go insane.

His one true hope, the one thing he's been desperately holding on to - that she doesn't love him - is crushed with one lingering kiss. The one which is different from all the others. The one during which time seems to stop, so he can see and memorize every detail, even though he doesn't want to.

How she seems to melt into his body, his arms pressing her to him.

Her fingers, sneaking up to the nape of his neck to play with his hair.

Her lips, he can imagine they must be so soft and lovely, against his – she opens her mouth, allowing his tongue access, and for the first time, their tongues are even dueling. He is the first and only man who knows what Katniss tastes like.

His right hand, so low by her hip, caressing her through the fabric of her trousers, nearly, but not quite, venturing underneath it.

The intensity in the moment, which has never been there before. Her body moves in a different way, it's only barely visible, but he can see it and recognize it because he sees **everything** about her.

A small sigh escapes from her lips as they part, and his heart breaks, because that's the sound he's always imagined she'd make after **he** kissed her. Now, instead, he has to watch her kiss someone else, knowing all of Panem watches it as well.

And it doesn't look like just a kiss, it looks like it could be… something more. Something much more.

Unable to stand it anymore, he runs out of the house, escaping into the woods, where he screams at the trees and the moon until his throat is raw and hurting from screaming her name.

Katniss.

Katniss Everdeen.


End file.
